


and i move slow

by floralathena



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath, Hopper is fine don't ask questions, M/M, Not Canon Compliant But Canon Adjacent, Post-Season/Series 03, Sharing a Bed, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-08-19 14:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20211313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floralathena/pseuds/floralathena
Summary: Jonathan's kind of relieved when his mom orders him and Nancy into separate rooms for the night.It's not that he doesn't love her. Really. He's just way too fucking exhausted and in way too much pain to think about their relationship right now, much less talk about it, and he's got a feeling that the next time he and Nancy are alone together, they'll be talking for a while. Sleeping next to Steve Harrington is worth it to push that conversation just a little bit further into the future.





	1. just slow enough to make you uncomfortable

Jonathan's kind of relieved when his mom orders him and Nancy into separate rooms for the night.

It's not that he doesn't love her. Really. He's just way too fucking exhausted and in way too much pain to think about their relationship right now, much less talk about it, and he's got a feeling that the next time he and Nancy are alone together, they'll be talking for a while. Sleeping next to Steve Harrington is worth it to push that conversation just a little bit further into the future. Steve tucks his coworker Robin under his arm for a moment to press a lazy kiss to the side of her head before she stumbles into his mom’s bedroom. Nancy just gives Jonathan a tired smile and kisses his cheek before following.

Joyce Byers will be waiting up on the sofa with a few exhausted thirteen-year-olds when Jim and El Hopper return from the hospital.

They both decide that even though they’re disgusting, showers can wait until they’ve gotten some sleep. Jonathan presses a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt into Steve's arms and Steve smiles so widely that Jonathan wonders whether or not that Russian drug has actually worn off yet.

"Thanks, man. Can you-" he says, jerking his head in a vague gesture that makes him blink a few times before he continues, "You know, tur-"

"Oh, yeah," Jonathan interrupts, turning his back to Steve and starting to unbutton his own shirt. "You can put the uniform, uh… anywhere, I guess, on the floor." 

Steve huffs a small laugh. "How about the trash? I don't think I'll be needing it again." 

Jonathan's weak, shaking fingers manage to pop open the last button on his shirt. He hears a grunt of pain. For a split second, Jonathan thinks the sound came from him, but then he realizes it's Steve, of course it is. Jonathan never even saw the Russians who did this to Steve, doesn't know the full story, whether Steve went a few rounds with actual trained soldiers or whether he just got beaten mercilessly, but the sound is a little pathetic and it makes Jonathan's chest hurt.

"I don't know," he says, pulling at his shirt and immediately letting out his own wheeze of pain. "Oh, shit, that hurts."

"You good?" 

"Yeah, just… ow."

"Yeah, I get that."

Jonathan takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he takes his shirt off the rest of the way and lets it fall to the floor. "But, uh, yeah. I don't know. Could come in handy for Halloween." 

"I guess it already has some bloodstains." 

"See, now it's got character. You’re not just a sailor, you’re a… vampire sailor.” Jonathan feels incredibly stupid as he undoes his belt. 

Steve laughs a little, though, so it’s not that bad. “Yeah, I’m just, like, a really messy eater.”

Something thumps and Steve hisses.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he rushes out, “Lost my balance for a second.”

“I get that,” Jonathan replies wryly, finally wrestling his belt out of the loops and letting it drop to the floor where he’ll probably trip over it later. 

"So, uh, what happened to you guys?" 

What did happen? Should he start with the rats or with the newspaper, with Billy or the hospital? Everything hurts and something's probably broken. He stabbed his former boss in the neck with a pair of surgical scissors. Nancy called him Oliver Twist, which isn't what Steve is asking about at all, but his brain thinks that it's about on par with all the other things in terms of importance right now.

"Jonathan? You still here?" 

"Yeah, yeah," he says. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans, letting them fall to the floor in a sad pile and stepping out, kicking them to the side. 

"Sorry, you don't- you don't have to talk about it."

“No, it’s cool, just… It’s so crazy. I wouldn’t know how to explain it.”

“Did you get your ass kicked?”

Even though his body’s screaming as he pulls a t-shirt on, he can’t help laughing. “Yeah. Yeah, I basically got my ass kicked.”

Steve clicks his mouth. “If it makes you feel any better, at least they didn’t fuck up your face too bad. I’m gonna have a black eye for, like, months, and I’m pretty sure that asshole had a ring on or something.”

“Was all of that blood yours?” It’s not a polite question. Steve is putting on his favorite pair of sweatpants, though, and they’re about to share his bed, and Steve watched him shove his hand into El’s leg a few hours ago, so Jonathan figures the time for politeness has passed.

He hears a sigh. “Yeah. I guess that’s a good thing.”

“Is it?”

“Man, I don’t even know anymore.”

Jonathan sighs as he struggles to pull on his pajama pants. “Me neither.”

“What about you? Got anybody else’s blood on your clothes?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, right, El,” Steve says. “I’m done.”

“Gimme a second,” Jonathan replies, “And, yeah, but that wasn’t what I was talking about. I, uh. I kind of had to stab my boss. Well, former boss.”

“Jesus. Was he… like Billy?”

“Yes and no. It was… different. I don’t know, but he almost killed us.” 

A light thump. Steve’s Scoops uniform lands just next to his jeans, right on top of his discarded button-up.

“Glad he didn’t.”

Jonathan manages to get his pants on without falling over. “I’m glad you guys got away from the Russians. I’m- you can turn around now.”

They both turn at once. Steve looks kind of hilarious, looking down at his own clothes in confusion. Jonathan hadn’t picked out a band tee on purpose, he’d just grabbed something at random, but now he’s glad because Steve Harrington in one of Jonathan Byers’ t-shirts is weird, but Steve Harrington in a kind of obscure band t-shirt is just funny. Steve’s face remains somewhat puzzled as they collapse onto the mattress. Neither of them moves to pull up the covers, so Jonathan just kicks them off all the way. It’s summer and he’s already got enough shit on his bedroom floor. What’s an added comforter? He tries not to think about how long it’s been since he changed his sheets. 

Steve is lying on his back, so Jonathan does too, even though he can never actually fall asleep like that. He should honestly be able to just pass the fuck out regardless, considering that Nancy woke him up at six this morning and it’s currently sometime past midnight and today’s definitely in the top ten of the most stressful days of his life, but he knows that he'll be lying awake for a while anyway. The ceiling looks the same as it always has. Jonathan guesses he should close his eyes. He keeps them open, scrutinizing every familiar pattern in the popcorn ceiling to try and find something new. Freddy the bunny rabbit looks a bit more like a baby Demogorgon, now that he thinks about it. One section of the ceiling looks kind of like a city skyline if he lets his eyes unfocus. Maybe he could make a portfolio of everyday things that look special to a kid, like the faces he used to see in car grilles and the magical kingdom that Will used to see in the woods. NYU is selective. His usual stuff probably won’t make the cut. Not that it matters, since there’s no way in hell they could ever afford it, but Jonathan still wants to apply. Just to know if he could do it.

The mattress shakes and from the corner of his eye, he sees Steve turn onto his side to face him.

“What does R.E.M. stand for?”

Oh, thank Jesus. Jonathan turns onto his side, immediately feeling a thousand times more comfortable. He’s also now face-to-face with Steve, which feels much less awkward than he’d expected it to feel. It’s more natural than lying flat on their backs without acknowledging each other.

“Rapid eye movement,” he says, watching Steve’s face change subtly as he speaks. “It’s a state that your brain goes into when you sleep. That’s when you dream.”

Steve’s face hurts a little to look at. Even though it must be painful to move a muscle, he’s still expressive, eyebrows raising slightly in understanding. “Oh. That’s cool. It’s a neat name. They did that, uh, Fable album, right? I saw it in Rolling Stone.”

“Yeah, Fables of the Reconstruction. The band’s on tour in Canada right now. I actually thought about taking a road trip up to see them, but Nance-” Jonathan stops himself. Steve’s eyebrows are furrowed now, his lips pursed sadly.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. His tone is soft. Like he means it. “Really, I’m… I’m over it. We weren’t good for each other.”

“Really?”

Steve frowns. “Are you surprised?”

“No, I- Well, yeah, I guess. I don’t know. You always seemed happy, up until… you know.”

He sighs and settles into the mattress, tucking one hand under his pillow. Nancy slept on that pillow just a couple of nights ago. “I guess we did. I thought I was, at least. Happy, you know. I don’t think I was, not really, but I thought I was, if that makes sense.”

“Like you were close enough to happy that you could pretend,” Jonathan murmurs without thinking.

Steve laughs a little bit like he can’t believe it, smiling despite a split lip. Jonathan feels a huff of air reach his face. “Exactly. Like, I’d never  _ really  _ felt it before, so I just… figured that’s how it felt to be happy, even when I still felt kind of shitty.”

“That’s almost wise.”

“You’re the one who said it.”

“Eh, I just translated,” Jonathan says. “It was your thought.”

Steve looks more pensive now. His eyes roam Jonathan’s face. “But you get it. That feeling.”

They’re whispering. Jonathan doesn’t know when they started whispering. 

“I guess.”

“I used to think that being happy was like… something you did. You know? Like, if you have a girlfriend and she doesn’t cheat on you, then you’re happy because that’s what’s supposed to make you happy.”

“Yeah. But it doesn’t work like that.”

Steve’s eyes are dark in the dim lamplight. “It doesn’t. I get that now. You know, I’ve been happier this summer than I’ve ever been?”

Jonathan feels his lips quirk up along with his eyebrows. “Really? Even after all of this?”

“Especially after all of this,” Steve says emphatically, his voice still soft but full of emotion. “Obviously if I could change it, I would. It's not like I enjoy being drugged and seeing the kids get hurt.”

“But?”

“But…” Steve yawns widely, shaking his head a little bit to wake himself up, “There are some things I understand now that I didn’t before. And I’m pretty sure me and Robin are best friends now, which is really cool. Plus, now I never have to wear that sailor shit again. Wait. Shit, I should have eaten more free ice cream when I had the chance.”

“Steve, when did you last sleep?”

“Uh.” He squints silently for a moment. “What day is it?”

Jonathan laughs. “Go to sleep, Steve.”

“I don’t have a job anymore,” he mumbles, closing his eyes at Jonathan’s command.

“Yeah, join the club.”

Another yawn. Steve keeps his eyes closed. “What happened?”

“Well, Nancy caught on about all of the people… well, people were acting weird, before they started… melting. You know, it was rats first, and then people, and Nancy knew from the start.”

“So did everyone at your job melt?”

Steve asks it so casually. His voice is different, a little deeper, and it takes Jonathan a second to realize that it’s because he’s sleepy. 

“No, not- not until after we got fired, anyway.”

Steve makes a little disappointed noise, eyes still lightly shut. “That’s lame. I bet you guys were good interns.”

It doesn’t… it’s okay to talk about things to somebody that’s asleep, right? Like, they won’t even really understand or remember anything, so you can just say whatever you need to say. Like going to therapy. 

Jonathan never thought therapy was really worth it. It’s not worth the money, not worth the time, sure, whatever, but mostly it’s not worth somebody else knowing him in that way. Knowing his vulnerabilities. Even if he had all the time and money in the world, he’d have to be in a really fucked-up place to subject himself to it. It’s like… kids at school know that he’s poor, and a weirdo, and a queer, but they don’t  _ know _ . Not really. So Jonathan can laugh at their ignorance and try his best to turn their jeers into a badge of honor because they might know but they’ll never really  _ know _ , so what they say doesn’t matter. It just means that he’s special, that maybe he’s actually doing something right.

“I like to think I was,” he says, speaking as softly as he can. “Nancy was… a terrible intern, honestly. Great journalist, investigator, you know, but... Shitty intern.”

“Yeah?”

Jonathan watches Steve’s face as he talks. “Yeah. She had a feeling about Mrs.- this woman, who called about the rats. Or- or she got another call, I don’t remember. It doesn’t really matter. We went over there and she didn’t answer the door, and Nancy wouldn’t leave, so we just… went in. She was already… possessed, I guess, and we called an ambulance for her, but, you know. We weren’t supposed to be investigating the rat stuff to begin with.”

Steve hums. His face is lax, mouth falling just the tiniest bit open as his cheek smushes deeper into Jonathan’s mattress. He’s just barely got his head resting on a pillow, but Jonathan thinks that it might honestly just be his hair, and his actual head might be flat on the mattress. It makes sense in a Steve Harrington sort of way. Jonathan softens his tone further, speaking so lowly that he can hardly hear himself.

“So we got fired. It sucks. Far from the worst thing that’s happened recently, though, so it’s not a big deal. I was going to have to find something part-time once school started up again anyway. We can get by, it’s not like I made all that much anyway, but it still… it took some of the pressure off of Mom, you know?”

He’s met with silence.

“Steve, are you still up?”

All Jonathan hears is a soft wheezing sound as Steve breathes.

“Basketball's a stupid sport.”

Nothing but air whistling through Steve’s nose. Jonathan wonders if it might be a little broken. It doesn’t look crooked, it looks just as straight and symmetrical as the rest of him, but Steve’s face was fairly bloody earlier, and Jonathan isn't sure if he would really be able to tell if it  _ were  _ crooked. Was Steve's nose completely straight to begin with? Maybe it skewed a bit to the right already and the Russians knocked it to the center. 

Jonathan feels kind of stupid. He might finally be going crazy. 

"Me and Nancy got into a fight," he murmurs. Steve's face doesn't so much as twitch. 

"I know it shouldn't matter anymore. We almost died. A lot of people did die. But I just don't know if I did the right thing. It was… I don't know. In the moment, I thought, just apologize, don't die mad at each other, you know? But we didn't die, and I'm glad, but I don't know where we go from here. We're supposed to be fine now, I think, but I don't… I don't feel fine. And I know that I should just sleep on it right now. I know it's been a long couple of days and I'm spiraling and I'm in pain and I'm probably not thinking straight, but I just can't help but think that something's wrong. That we're wrong."

Steve doesn't look confused or judgmental or pained. In his sleep he just looks young. The bruising on his face seems almost like makeup for a movie, like it can't be real, because he's young and asleep and peaceful and his face shouldn't be beaten to a bloody pulp. Steve Harrington isn't the kind of person who grows old and gets beaten down by life. He's supposed to be seventeen forever, frozen in the Hawkins High 1985 Yearbook for real people like Jonathan and Nancy to look back on in ten or thirty years and wonder if he ever really existed or if he was just the collective hallucination of a couple hundred teenagers desperate for a hero. They're supposed to look back on him and wonder if he's still untouchable or if he burned out like a comet after graduation. Steve isn't untouchable, though, Jonathan knows. It wasn't too long ago that the bruise over Steve's eye came from Jonathan's knuckles. He's as real as Jonathan.

"It's hard now. Knowing when I- knowing when things are wrong. I mean, the world isn't black and white, I know that, it never has been. Now, though, it's like…" Jonathan trails off.

Steve's breath catches in his throat and he sniffles a little bit before returning to normal.

Jonathan swallows. Looking into someone's eyes is a lot easier when they're closed. "It's like, you can't live your life expecting to die at any minute. But you can't just assume everything will always be okay, either. And I used to kind of assume that it was over and everything would be okay, but it isn't. Or it wasn't. It won't be."

His breath is ragged in his lungs. 

"I keep thinking about it. I shouldn't be, I know, God, it's so stupid, but I just feel… fuck, I … just like a dumb little kid. Like a stupid fucking kid again, and I keep wondering if you ever felt this way too."

Jonathan stops himself. He isn't totally sure since his ears are ringing, but he thinks he was raising his voice. Nobody should be woken up by someone yelling an internal monologue in their face. Jonathan closes his eyes for a moment, painfully aware of Steve's warmth next to his body and his heart pounding away in his chest.

"I don't know what I'm saying," he whispers. "I don't know why I'm panicking."

He focuses on Steve's steady breathing, inhaling and exhaling, slow and measured. Like that counselor made them all do in an assembly last year. Breathing in calmness, breathing out tension. Jonathan adds his own twist on the exercise: keeping time with Steve. As he inhales, he imagines that he's drawing something serene from the air, like oxygen is the natural alternative to Xanax and he just never realized until now. Steve exhales so Jonathan does too, like he's spitting everything twisted and knotted-up inside of him out into the universe for someone else to untangle. This goes on for a while, in and out, until Jonathan doesn't have to lie to himself anymore and he can just keep breathing with Steve and let his mind drift.

"You're way better than some therapist," he breathes out. 

Jonathan decides to keep his eyes closed. He hones in on Steve's breathing and starts counting along, in two three four out two three four. If he falls asleep still breathing like this, will he and Steve breathe in sync until they wake? If he opens his eyes right now, will he see rapid movement under Steve's eyelids? At some point he switches to just counting the breaths, every time they exhale together, and he reaches 73 or 74 before losing track and starting over, one two three four five until he slips off into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next part should be up by friday (8/16) and if it isn't PLEASE come yell at me @ahoylesbians on tumblr!!! 
> 
> title is from "maps" by the front bottoms.
> 
> thanks as always to sarah (@bi-harrington on tumblr, mjolnirbreaker on ao3) for helping me out and being the best person ever to have a psychic connection with! go tell her your honest opinion on the front bottoms


	2. slipping through the palms of my sweaty hands

Jonathan takes the most painfully refreshing shower of his life.

He’s never been so badly bruised before that just the gentle pressure of water on his skin was enough to hurt, but he learns pretty quickly not to turn his mottled back to the shower head. So he just tries to bend his head forward into the spray to wash his hair, but that hurts too, so he just kind of shuffles a bit too far forwards, crowding into the shower wall, closing his eyes, and holding his breath. He leans back every so often to take breaths until he figures that the shampoo is mostly gone. It’s not like anyone’s really going to give a shit if his hair looks like garbage. The bruising on his face is much more noticable, and he isn’t even the most injured person in the house.

Steve’s hair probably looks just as nice and perfect as usual. Or maybe not, Jonathan considers, surveying the products in their shower as he scrubs whichever parts of his body he can reach without wanting to cry and down an entire bottle of ibuprofen. Did he opt to use Mom’s old bottle of Agree, or her recently-acquired Clairol Herbal Essences? He’s fairly confident that the bottle of 3-in-1 he and Will share went untouched by Steve. No need to speculate on that front. 

Is Nancy still here? As Jonathan towels off he considers. She really should go home soon. She and Mike had both called home last night claiming to have sleepovers, Nancy having to lie about staying at some girl’s house that Jonathan is pretty sure she just made up, and the longer she’s here the longer Ted and Karen have to figure out that she actually spent the night at her boyfriend’s. Not that anything happened, unlike every other time that Nancy’s slept over, but none of them have ever been lucky. Of course this would be the one time they catch her. He steps into some boxers and doesn’t look in the mirror before leaving the bathroom, a little afraid of what he might see.

What he does see when he ducks back into his room is probably worse than what he would have found in the mirror. 

Steve’s back in the same pair of sweatpants from last night, which Jonathan thinks was probably the right choice. They’re comfy. He’s fiddling with something bright red in his hands as he scans Jonathan’s open dresser drawer. His hair is still so wet that Jonathan can’t believe it isn’t dripping. It’s not quite as voluminous as it usually looks, but Jonathan will have to see how it dries, assuming that Steve sticks around that long. Jonathan hopes- no, thinks that he should. He should stick around. He probably still isn’t in any shape to drive home. When he focuses his eyes, Jonathan can spot shining droplets of water on Steve’s shoulders. His bare torso is splashed with reddish-purple bruises, focused mostly around his ribs and stomach, though there are a few lighter bruises scattered across his arms. There’s a band of purple around his chest and upper arms, lighter and not quite as nausea-inducing as the rest. Jonathan realizes that he must have been tied up. Suddenly those bruises make him feel sicker than any of the others.

“Take any of them,” he says, thanking his lucky stars that his voice didn’t waver. “Though I figure you probably won’t like most of them.”

Steve turns to face him with a grin. Its exerburance is just barely marred by his one awfully black and red puffy eye. “Oh, you do not have  _ nearly  _ the most offensive wardrobe I’ve ever seen. I was just trying to figure out which you wouldn’t mind me borrowing.”

“Well, like I said. Any of them. Just hand me one, too, and some pants while you’re at it.”

He opts to lean against the wall and watch, rather than take two steps and join Steve by the dresser. Walking kind of makes his hip and his lower back scream. 

Besides, there’s something about this moment that Jonathan just thinks he should be still for. Like when the world pauses and life feels suddenly very important and very comfortable all at once, and you know that if you move the air will shift and the wind will blow again and you'll be left grasping helplessly in the breeze for some sort of meaning. 

Steve bounces his fingers across every t-shirt in the drawer before pulling out a plain black one. Jonathan thinks he bought in a three-pack at the convenience store. Steve makes a face and puts it back, digging around until he finds something that seems to please him: An old, stretched-out Hawkins High gym shirt. It’s probably the softest thing Jonathan owns. Steve tosses it over and Jonathan just barely catches it, fumbling briefly before securing his hold. 

“Your mom steal that?” Steve continues to rifle through the drawer as Jonathan pulls the familiar t-shirt over his head.

“Yeah, though she swears it doesn’t count as stealing. I think she’s just afraid that if she condones stealing in any situation, Will’s gonna start swiping colored pencils or something.”

Jonathan gets his head through the collar just in time to see Steve toss another pair of sweatpants his way. He fumbles these as well, juggling them in the air for a second before catching them solidly by an ankle. Steve presses his lips together and snorts before pulling another t-shirt out of the drawer and closing it.

Steve Harrington hands out smiles like they’re candy. Now that Jonathan thinks about it, he can distinctly remember Steve throwing out candy from the back of some kid’s dad’s pickup truck a couple months ago, beaming with a shitty plastic crown on his head and cheap paper sash across his shoulder. That smile wasn’t half as real as this one, he realizes, this involuntary grin that Steve is failing to hide in Jonathan’s oversized Indiana State Fair 1978 t-shirt. It almost makes Jonathan want to smile, too.

"That's gotta be the most offensive shirt I own," Jonathan remarks. 

"What, you don't think I can make this work?”

He gestures to himself. The bright blue shirt is about two sizes too big, wide collar exposing some chest hair and bruising, and the cinched ankles of Jonathan’s grey sweatpants have inched a bit too far up on his calves. It looks sorta like his legs suddenly grew three inches and the rest of him shrunk.

“Well, I certainly couldn’t,” Jonathan says diplomatically. “Mom said I’d grow into it and that never really happened.”

Steve makes a face. “Well, when you spend as much time in the mall as I do- or, uh, did, I guess- you learn a couple of tricks. Besides, blue’s my second-best color.” He then gathers the shirt, taking the excess fabric from around his hips and pulling it all to the front where he ties a knot. 

“Second-best?”

“Green, duh.” Now the shirt balloons until it reaches Steve’s waist where it’s suddenly fitted, exposing a bit of skin before the eye reaches the rolled-over waistband of Jonathan’s sweatpants. 

“Ta-da!” He waves sarcastic jazz hands at Jonathan. “Now it’s trendy.”

Jonathan eyes Steve’s waist. “I don’t think that’s a trend.”

There’s still a bit of bruising visible, just on his right hip.

“You’re just jealous. Ooh, I think I smell bacon,” Steve says, walking past Jonathan and knocking him companionably on the arm as he passes. It's acted out like a punch, but it's so gentle that the word isn't accurate. A touch or a brush, maybe, or a caress, but not something so harsh as  _ punch _ . The air shifts with Steve's passing and something fragrant lingers in the air- Steve used the Herbal Essences. Jonathan’s eyes follow the bruise without his permission, body turning to track with Steve, and then Steve is in the hallway and Jonathan realizes that he’s still just standing in his boxers.

“Fuck,” he whispers, shaking his head before stepping into his pants and pulling them on with a sigh. He needs to talk to Will and Mom. 

He went to check on them as soon as he woke up this morning to an empty bed. They were in the living room and Jonathan had pulled them both into a group hug that felt like home and warmth and love, until Will shoved him off and told him he smelled. Mom kissed him on the cheek before strongly encouraging him to shower once Steve got out.

So he showered when Steve got out. There had actually been plenty of hot water left, which was surprising considering how long he was in there. Maybe Steve likes his showers cold. Athletes are weird like that. 

Jonathan walks into the living room and the air feels heavy. The TV is on, playing some old Western movie. El and Hop are both still asleep on the sofa, cuddled together on one end. Mike is sitting on the other end, arms and legs both crossed, staring at them with an oddly intense look on his face. Max, Lucas, and Dustin are huddled on the floor by El's dangling feet, eating an assortment of toast, bacon, scrambled eggs, and ham sandwiches off of paper plates. 

Will sits on the arm of the sofa by Mike. He turns and gives Jonathan a thin smile, wordlessly jerking his thumb towards the kitchen.

“That’s not gonna save you,” Jonathan says lowly, trapping Will in a side hug and kissing his forehead.

“Ew,” Will groans out through his widening smile, skinny arm wrapping around Jonathan’s waist. “Go bother Mom.”

Jonathan presses his face into Will’s hair for a couple seconds, because nobody can begrudge him this little bit of comfort at times like these and Will is getting older. Sometimes Jonathan misses when Will’s hair smelled like baby shampoo. God, he’s way too young to be thinking like this, but these days it’s like time is moving faster than he is, and every time Will lets him ruffle his hair or straighten his collar Jonathan wonders if it might be the last. Will's fingers curl against his side, digging into a bruise from yesterday, and he clenches his teeth to avoid letting out a cry of pain. 

"Alright, alright, I'll let you free," Jonathan wheezes out, and lets out a breath of relief when Will removes his arm.

Mom is fixing a sandwich in the kitchen. Steve's bent halfway over with his head stuck in the freezer and Robin is ducking under his body, pulling a near-empty jar of mayonnaise out of the fridge and joining Mom at the counter. Robin is in Mom’s clothes, an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts that she wears like they mean something to her, like they’re intentional. Jonathan never paid much attention to Robin in school, but he thinks he’d remember this kind of sureness if he’d passed it in the hall. It’s surprising even though it shouldn’t be. These kinds of things change people. In Robin’s case as in Steve’s, Jonathan figures that it’s a change for the better. 

Something is crinkling. Steve must be pressing his face into the frozen peas that he bought just last week. He’s suddenly a little glad that Mom insists on them eating something green with every dinner.

“You’re letting all of the cold air out,” Jonathan says casually as he passes Steve before occupying the empty space to his mother’s left. “Mom, have you eaten?”

She’s got that same old exhaustion in her bones, the raggedness around the edges that he’s always hated, but she’s smiling. Her face is bright. Jonathan always thinks that his mom is the prettiest person he’s ever met, but when she’s happy? Joyce Byers  _ shines  _ when she’s happy, and Jonathan knows that he’s biased but he can’t imagine a single soul disagreeing if he told the whole word,  _ hey, my mom is the most beautiful woman in the world! _ Well, she would probably disagree, but this is the one situation where Jonathan doesn’t think her opinion counts.

The peas crinkle again and he hears the freezer door shut.

“Can’t even let me wallow in peace, huh, Byers?”

“You wanna cover the electric bill this month?”

“Leave him alone,” Mom scolds, bumping her hip against his leg as she spreads mayonnaise. “And I had a sandwich earlier, but I know you haven’t eaten. Robin, sweetie, do we have any more bread left over there?”

“Uh, yeah, if you don’t mind using the butt pieces.”

Steve scoffs. His voice is a bit muffled by the bag of peas, which he’s holding over his entire face. “The  _ end pieces _ are the best part. They’re way healthier. Thinner, so less calories, plus the crust has, like, vitamins and stuff.”

Robin’s face is scrunched in revulsion. “Eugh, and you think I’m the weird one?”

“I mean, I’ll take the end pieces if nobody wants them,” Steve says, “But I’ll probably head out soon.” 

“Oh, no you don’t!” Mom exclaims, whirling around and pointing at Steve with a mayo-coated butter knife. Steve throws his hands up in surrender, bag of peas balanced limply in one palm and eyes wide. 

“If you really need to go home, someone else can drive you, but you’re gonna  _ rest _ today, got that?” Mom ends her sentence with a threatening jab and Robin giggles. Jonathan can’t help a snort.

“That goes for you too, mister,” she continues, turning to wave her knife at Jonathan. Over her shoulder he can see Robin’s smug expression perfectly as she raises her eyebrows like,  _ not my problem _ . 

That’s fair. They aren’t really friends. Steve isn’t really Jonathan’s friend, either, but he still feels betrayed when he looks over to see a perfect rendition of Robin’s face splashed across Steve’s pitiful, busted-up features. 

"Yes ma’am,” Jonathan says. She reaches out to touch his cheek with a rueful smile. Jonathan has to swallow and focus on not allowing tears to fill his eyes. 

“All of you kids, go, sit down,” she says, patting Jonathan’s cheek and turning back to her sandwich. “I’ll bring your food in just a second.”

“Mom-”

“Sit.”

“You heard the boss,” Steve says. 

Jonathan can’t argue with that.

They sit at the dining table. Everything feels a bit surreal and Jonathan tries to figure out what’s normal. He watches Mom make sandwiches and he watches the kids shove each other around in the living room and he tries not to listen to Steve and Robin as they make plans to go see a movie together. Although it isn’t a particularly romantic conversation, he still feels like he’s intruding on something. It’s not a feeling that he likes. He’s done with intruding, and he’s specifically done with intruding on Steve’s private moments. Steve and Robin don’t seem to care about his internal anguish.

“Dude, I told you already-”

“That can’t be it. No way. There is no  _ way _ -”

“It was his mom, I swear!”

Mom puts their plates down on the table. She pulls him into a tight, awkward hug from her standing position, cradling his head against her stomach and leaving Jonathan with little to do but close his eyes and commit the feeling to memory. He was so close to losing this. So close to losing his mom’s warm, gentle fingers in his hair and her sandwiches with a terrible condiment-to-filling ratio and her soft old t-shirts that smell a bit like tobacco and her love, her love that makes him want to be the kind of man that she sees in him and the kind of son that she deserves.

She pulls away too soon. 

“Nancy, sit down, sweetie!” 

That explains it. He looks up to find Nancy with a small, tense smile on her face. A small, cold hand finds his shoulder, squeezing with the kind of strength he's come to expect from Nancy Wheeler. It doesn't make him feel much better. 

"Thanks, Mrs. Byers, but I think I'm gonna head on home. My parents are gonna be worried after everything with the mall, and I gave them a pretty weak excuse last night." 

Mom clicks her tongue, frowning. "Well, alright. Be safe."

Nancy's hand starts to slip away, and Jonathan lurches up from his seat. "I'll walk you out." 

He catches Robin making an exaggerated gagging motion in his peripheral vision, Steve smacking her arm and stealing her glass of water which she then elbows him to reclaim. Jonathan's eyes are on Nancy as she pulls him to the door. He's still fairly certain that Steve and Robin are wrestling over the glass even with his back to them, which reminds him of when Will would have the whole party sleep over on his birthday and they would descend on the breakfast table the next morning like a pack of wolves. The thought makes him smile, even as his hand grows clammy in Nancy's grip. He thinks about those hands wrapped tight around a fire extinguisher. God, he should be worshipping her right now. His girlfriend is an action hero. She saved his life, but when he thinks beyond those capable hands, he hears her voice,  _ the Oliver Twist routine _ . 

When they step outside and close the front door, Jonathan is acutely aware of just how quiet it is. He hadn't realized how much noise he'd gotten used to, from the TV and the kids and Hopper's snoring. Now it's just the two of them.

Nancy takes his other hand and he feels a little sick. Her lips curve into something like a smirk and he suddenly wants to be looking anywhere but at her pretty curl-framed face. 

"How are you doing?" 

"Alright," he says immediately. She purses her lips and Jonathan feels his shoulders slump. 

"Jonathan."

Her somber expression reminds him of bad times. He's always thought about the past when he's been with Nancy, about the Upside Down and planning Will's funeral, about the look in her eyes when he took her home from the party on Halloween and the fear that he saw in Will's and Mom's later on. It used to comfort him, the fact that she'd been there through it all. Nancy had seen him at his lowest and stayed. Listened to his anxieties and fears and even though he didn't have much of anything to offer her, she stayed. He thought that meant she loved him. They loved each other, listened to each other and provided a safe, comfortable haven from the cruelty of the world.

_ Again _ , she said in the car. The Oliver Twist routine  _ again _ .

How many times had Jonathan mentioned money? Lonnie? Work? Was it really that bad? He'd avoided all of it for at least a month into their relationship. She said it was okay, though, that she loved him and wanted to listen. So he'd vent sometimes. He didn't think he'd been too whiny or dramatic. It was just… talking about his life. Being honest. 

How many times had she listened with a sympathetic face, all the while thinking _ , not this bullshit again _ ?

"Jonathan? Hey, are you okay? Do you need-" 

"No, no," he says, meeting her eyes. He isn't sure when he looked away. "Sorry, I'm just… exhausted. I zoned out there for a second."

She laughs through her frown. "Yeah, I'm pretty tired, too."

Jonathan swallows. Nancy's jaw is tense.

"Listen," she says slowly, looking down at their joined hands. "I… I think we need to talk." Her eyes dart back up to meet his gaze. "Later." 

"Yeah," he says. The summer air feels thick like a blanket. "Later." 

She leans in and, after a split-second's hesitation, places a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Pulling back, she raises their joined hands and kisses his knuckles, too. 

"See you." 

"See you," Jonathan echoes helplessly.

Watching her pedal away in his mom's old cargo shorts and multicolored "paint shirt" feels kind of like putting down a book just before the final chapter. Like he can breathe for now, but it's gonna be stuttered and shallow until he reaches the ending. He stands on the stoop for another minute or so, wishing that he smoked so that he'd have an excuse to stay out here until his chest stopped aching and the haze in his head cleared up. It's an unfamiliar feeling. He isn't really sure what to call it. Guilt? Relief? Anticipation? It seems like maybe he and Nancy are on the same page and this could be relatively painless. But Nancy's book doesn't have the same overwrought, tortured marginalia as Jonathan's. It's like how he got a textbook full of doodles, mostly-incorrect homework answers, and scribbled conversations for History one year, so whenever he looked at someone else's book it was almost impossible to recognize as the same text. Nancy's book doesn't have  _ Oliver Twist _ highlighted and underlined with ten exclamation points scratched into the blank space nearby. Her book definitely doesn't say anything about wandering eyes or bullying or fear or the way that it felt to breathe with Steve Harrington. 

Jonathan goes inside. He realizes that there's sweat running down the back of his neck.

"Hey, where's Nancy?" 

Mike doesn't look worried. Concerned, maybe, in the way that brothers need to be concerned wherever their sisters' boyfriends are involved. 

"Went home," Jonathan says. "I figured you guys talked about it..?" 

Mike's face scrunches in disgust. "Oh, that  _ bitch _ ! Did she take my bike?"

Jonathan blinks. "Uh, I guess."

"Shit," Mike sighs. "Can someone give me a ride later?" 

"Mi handlebars es su handlebars," Dustin says grandly. 

Lucas frowns. "Do you even have your bike?" 

There's a moment of silence.

" _ Heyyy _ , Steve, can you give me and Mike rides home later?" 

"Steve will not be giving anybody a ride anytime soon. Me and Hop can get you kids home." 

The haze in Jonathan's head starts to clear. He reclaims his seat at the table and smiles at Mom, starting on his sandwich. Steve dumps his half-eaten sandwich on Robin's plate, stands, and leans heavily on Jonathan's shoulder for a second before stumbling into the living room to join the transportation argument, collapsing into an armchair as the kids start gently shoving one another. He could almost imagine that they're all nine again, but then Hop grumbles awake and Max shoves Mike aside to get to El and Robin asks if he's gonna do Yearbook again next year, and Jonathan thinks that for all that his body is screaming in pain and his mental state is going up in flames, this weird new state of existence might turn out to be better than the past.

He can handle a day of Mom-enforced bedrest with Steve Harrington. He might even enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look. im aware this is two weeks late. in my defence i moved into an apartment and started my second year of college and i greatly misjudged my time management/self-encouragement skills. 
> 
> anyways its finally here and im sorry and i hope u enjoyed!!! thanks as always to my angel sarah (mjolnirbreaker on ao3, bi-harrington on tumblr). without u i wouldnt have written 95% of what i have and u deserve the world!!!
> 
> i really appreciate comments if u have a second and wanna tell me which parts are ur fave or if u wanna just scream or say what ur expecting from chapter 3!!


	3. but you are an artist (and your mind don't work the way you want it to)

Steve's weight next to Jonathan on the mattress keeps him grounded. 

The feeling is far more comforting than it should be. Part of it is that Jonathan's just gotten used to sharing a bed with Nancy, and in a world full of actual monsters, evil scientists, and government conspiracies, it feels nice to have someone by your side. Another part of it, though, has to do with Steve specifically. 

It's somehow incredibly difficult to feel self-pitying or melancholy when he's around. Like, it's kind of impossible.

Jonathan always figured that he liked to be a bit self-pitying and melancholy. They're two of the three greatest feelings as represented in art, alongside their brother heartbreak. Being introspective and considering the world for the harsh place that it truly is can lead to the understanding of certain fundamental truths, such as the fact that if karmic justice exists, it certainly doesn't operate on a tight schedule. Jonathan can't write it off completely, of course, seeing as he hasn't been alive for much more than seventeen years and karma might start kicking in any day now, but he can confidently say that it takes its sweet fucking time. Other truths he's arrived at include the knowledge that whatever lies within his heart, it doesn't matter. What matters is his choices and the impact he has on the people around him. Intent only matters so far as it's carried out. Nobody gets married with the intent of divorce and kids don't make observations with the intent of cruelty, but good intentions often end in misery.

He can't really dwell on those things right now. Steve's face is the perfect representation of it all, the lack of karmic justice in the universe and the ways in which good intentions often end in pain, but mostly Steve's face is happy and relaxed, and Jonathan can't help but mirror him. Well, as well as one can mirror a person that's directly facing somebody else in the room.

"Okay, okay, so would you rather-"

"Another?"

"Shh, this one's good," Steve says sternly, holding out a single index finger. "Would you rather have a thousand cockroaches living in your attic that are always coming down into your room and shit, or just one random homeless guy?" 

"The homeless guy would also be living in my attic?" Jonathan asks for clarification, receiving a nod from Steve.

"But he doesn't come into my room?" Robin asks.

"Hm… Nah. Not unless you invite him." 

Robin chews at her thumbnail, shifting into a cross-legged position at the foot of the bed, looking back consideringly at where Steve and Jonathan lean against the headboard.

Jomathan scrunches his eyebrows together. "Roaches, obviously. If you get an exterminator-" 

"No, but that's not in the spirit of the would you rather!"

"Right, that's too easy," Robin mumbles before moving her thumb away from her mouth. "If you're just gonna say you can get an exterminator, then you can also just leave your house and call the, uh- Hopper, or someone, to get the guy. Hypothetical questions don't really hold up to real-world logic."

Jonathan considers it. "That's fair. I mean, the point isn't really how you would react to a situation, it's ultimately about what you prioritize in life. It's just about what kinds of discomfort you're more willing to suffer."

"Exactly!" Robin says. She has a really nice smile. Jonathan doesn't remember seeing much of it in school.

Steve groans, slumping back against Jonathan's pillows. "You guys are so lame. Come on, roaches or attic guy?" 

"Attic guy," Robin says confidently, as Jonathan replies, "Roaches." 

" _ What _ ?" all three of them say, and Steve laughs, so of course Robin collapses into giggles too.

They remind Jonathan of those low-budget comedies that are written and directed by the leads. The delivery is enthusiastic and the laughter is real, but they react to each other just a little bit too quickly, starting on their line or letting a laugh escape just before their scene partner finishes delivering the punchline. Like they're almost too familiar with each other and they always know where the next sentence is headed. Sunlight seeps in through the blinds and Robin's hair shines a little bit golden, Steve shining like he always does, and Jonathan feels like he's out of place but he never wants to leave.

"What's so funny?" 

Mom stands in the doorway, hand cradling her chin and a smirk on her lips.

"Long story," Jonathan tells her. 

She leans against the doorframe. "Alright, none of my business, I get it. Robin, are you about ready to go home? I'm sure your folks are worried." 

"Yeah, thanks, Miss B. Give me a sec to grab my stuff." 

"I'll start the car."

Mom winks at him before backing out of the doorway and Jonathan knows that as soon as they're alone and things have calmed down, she's gonna be asking him if he wants to invite his new little friends over sometime. The thought doesn't irritate him. For once he thinks that she might be right.

Robin looks at Steve, trying not to smile, before the two of them burst into giggles once more as if on command.

"Ow, god," Steve wheezes out, "It hurts to laugh." 

She scoots off of the bed and ruffles Steve's hair, bending over to pick up the tied-shut plastic bag with her work clothes in it.

"Thanks for everything, Byers," she says as Steve halfheartedly whacks at her for having the audacity to touch his hair. 

"Thank Mom. I wanted to make you all walk home." 

"Hey, I biked!" she protests. "I'm not helpless like dingus over here." 

"Yeah? See who's helpless when you're trying to bike uphill in the snow and I've got my baby back complete with her snow tires. You'll be begging for a ride."

"It's still extremely weird how you talk about cars," she says, rolling her eyes and heading towards the door. 

"Says the girl who called her ears little geniuses," Steve shoots back, face smug and glowing, always glowing in the smallest bit of sunlight. 

Robin stops in the doorframe, looking back at Steve like she's seeing something that Jonathan can't. Maybe she likes gold, too. 

"Are you okay?" 

Steve's smug look morphs into something unfathomably soft. He looks just as young as he does in sleep, yet somehow Jonathan feels more intrusive gazing at him like this. His eyes are wide and their deep brown color calls to mind… humus. Soil. Chocolate is what brown eyes should make you think of, he knows, but Jonathan's a freak and all he can think of now is that rich, earthy smell from the garden center when he had to grow some herbs for extra credit in Biology. It had felt almost unreal, somehow both smooth and rough, crumbling between his fingers. Dirt is all well and good, but it's humus, decayed organic matter, that gives plants life. Deep brown and complex and made up of so many little long-dead things that nobody could ever identify them all, but all of the little dead bits work together to bring more life to the earth. 

"Ask me tomorrow," Steve says to Robin. Jonathan knows that her broad grin will linger in his mind long after she's left. He thinks that she probably deserves to be happy just as much as any of them do, and she must be a bona fide hero to actually  _ do _ it. To be happy like she's never seen a monster or heard a child scream in pain or faced her own mortality. Jonathan couldn't even manage before it all.

Steve exhales loudly. "Nap time?" 

Of course, it's easier with Steve around. They're a perfect match.

" _ God _ , yes." The words slip from his mouth without permission, embarrassingly earnest, but Steve is already snuggling into bed. Under the comforter. He didn't seem to notice.

Jonathan takes a gamble and tucks himself under the covers, too, breath hitching in pain as he shifts and tingles run up and down his spine. He breathes out slowly, squeezing his eyes shut until colorful spots are dancing and lying down almost doesn't hurt. Maybe that sixth Tylenol wasn't such a terrible idea after all. 

The weight next to him shifts.

Jonathan turns on his side to find Steve doing the same, languid and yawning before settling into a rueful grin. "Sorry that we kind of invaded your room. And for stealing half of your bed." 

Steve must have brushed his teeth after breakfast. When Jonathan inhales, he can almost taste mint. It can't have been more than an hour. The awful bruising around his eye is settling into a purplish black that he knows will stick around for the next day or two. It looks more real than it did last night. 

"It's cool. Not like you had a choice. Mom would kill both of us if we weren't asleep or at least lying down by the time she got back." 

Jonathan could have gone to sleep in Will's or Mom's bed, but he figures it's probably best for his back if he sleeps on his own familiar mattress. For some reason. He isn't exactly sure how that might work, but it seems logical enough. 

"Well, still. Thanks. You totally could have kicked me onto the couch." 

"Yeah," Jonathan considers. The smell of mint mingles with the memory of wet earth after a spring rain. "But now I know that Robin's cool with having a homeless guy in her attic, so I've got a backup plan when photography doesn't work out." 

Steve’s face scrunches in laughter. Jonathan feels warm. 

“Shut up, man, you’re a good photographer. You’re gonna be in, like, Nat Geo or something.” 

“Mmm, wildlife photography isn’t really my thing.” 

“Not like you’ve got any other options in Hawkins. Not a ton of models around here.” 

There are a lot of options, actually, but now’s not the time. Steve isn’t interested in the graffiti under the bridge or the way sunlight cuts through the trees in their backyard in autumn. He’s probably never thought about how every picture in the newspaper and in their textbooks and on album covers had to be taken by somebody. Somebody with passion and skill and an eye for the extraordinary and rolls upon rolls of film full of garbage and the occasional masterpiece. Nobody really thinks about it. Nobody that Jonathan’s met, anyway. 

“Well, you need a new job now, right?”

Jonathan is going to fling himself off of a cliff. 

It would almost be poetic if they found him in the quarry. Extremely depressing and likely traumatizing for everyone involved, yet somehow symmetric and ironic all at once. Mom and Will probably wouldn't appreciate the artistry of it.

Steve doesn’t turn away. Jonathan is suddenly drawn to the crinkles by his eyes. Right now they just pop up when he smiles, but Jonathan knows that if they’re all very, very lucky, one day Steve will smile and the evidence will stay, carved into his face so that everyone will know Steve Harrington managed to find things to laugh about despite the world's conspiracy to make him and everybody else under this roof the butt of the joke. Jonathan’s never had that talent, but now he’s got a model to study. 

“You gonna pay me, Byers?”

He pretends to think. “How does… a free night in my room after getting tortured in a shopping mall sound?” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like a pretty shady deal, Hef.”

Jonathan clenches a fist, takes a deep breath, and puts on his best skeezy old man voice. "Hey, don't be like that, dollface."

"HA!" Steve blurts out, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth like he’s shocked by the sound that just came out. Jonathan can still see the crinkles by his eyes. His broad shoulders shake and the tension drains from Jonathan’s body. 

“Oh my god, since when are you so funny?” he asks, turning to tuck his face into the mattress and take a few deep breaths.

“Ouch,” Jonathan replies.

“Shut up, that’s not what I meant,” Steve mumbles, muffled by Jonathan’s mussed-up bedsheets. “Let’s go back to the photography thing. I’m gonna die.”

“Just for the record, Steve, you started this.”

“Just for the record,  _ Jonathan _ ,” he says, peeking up from where he’s smushed his face into the bed, and why does Jonathan feel like he’s never heard someone say his name before? He was just… expecting Byers, is all. Expecting nothing, really. People just don’t use each other’s first names that often in conversation. It’s a totally normal thing to be thrown off by, even if he did do it first. 

“Just for the record, Jonathan,” Steve says, “I regret ever-”

The sound dies in Steve’s throat, throttled abruptly with a small, panicked hum. Steve stops peeking up at him, face turned entirely to the mattress.

“You regret ever what?”

“It was a stupid joke.” 

“Stupider than all the others?”

“I’m pretty sure stupider isn’t a word.”

“Well, Nancy’s not here to correct us. Don’t change the subject, dude, you can just say it.”

What lines are there that they haven’t yet crossed? What could Steve be so ashamed of that he can’t even confess his regret? What the fuck does this thing have to do with Jonathan’s shitty Hugh Hefner impression?

“You don’t... I mean, you don’t have to,” he backpedals, “If it’s personal. I just meant-”

“No, no!” Steve flails, quickly shifting back onto his side to face Jonathan fully. His cheeks are flushed. “No, dude, it was just gonna make me sound like an asshole. It’s nothing, I swear. Just- Forget about it. What do you take pictures of? If you don’t do animals or people.”

Pressing his lips together to stave off a smile, Jonathan settles deeper into bed. “Well, sometimes I do animals and people. You kinda have to, you know, to get any good at photography. I actually really like people, too. Uh, photographing them, I mean. It’s probably my favorite kind of photography, but I can only make Will pose for me so many times before he tells me to leave him alone and bother someone else, you know, and I don’t really…” he trails off. He’s getting almost uncomfortably warm under the sheets now. Steve puts off a lot of body heat.

“Have someone else?” Steve asks.

Jonathan swallows. “Yeah. I’m not gonna go around taking pictures of people without asking.”

The statement hangs in the air like a half-deflated helium balloon. Steve blinks. He has really nice eyelashes.

“Like, anymore. I, uh. Learned that lesson. It was pretty fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Steve replies mildly. “I learned some, too.”

He smiles.

Were Steve’s eyes always like this? Always so wide and honest? There's a little chunk of hair flopping across his forehead, dipping in and out of the way as it moves in time with Steve's breathing, interrupting Jonathan's intent focus on the deep brown of Steve's eyes. He wants to... hold on. He wants to hold on to this. The shine of Steve's eyes and the slope of his nose and that little piece of hair. Even the swelling and bruising around his left eye and the split in his lip. Especially the few freckles dotting his cheek. No camera could capture it all. Pictures don't breathe. They can't bruise. They only bleed if you fuck up your chemicals in the darkroom. Even if Jonathan could get the lighting right, make the right things fall into shadow while Steve's features glowed, no picture could capture this feeling. Jonathan wouldn't want to capture it anyway. It's all his, the thrumming in his veins and the tremor in his hands and the warm body in his bed. If he captured it, he might have to share.

Steve yawns. "Sorry. I'm still kind of dead." 

"Then sleep. That's kinda what we're here for."

Steve nods, closing his eyes. Jonathan watches as they shift beneath his eyelids. 

He's beautiful. 

When Jonathan was nine, Lonnie dropped him off at a movie theater in the city with a ten dollar bill at noon and didn't come back until just before the theater closed. Jonathan bought a ticket to Freaky Friday and spent the rest of the money on a big soda, candy, and an extra large bag of popcorn, and he watched Freaky Friday for about twenty minutes before he got bored and decided to break the rules. He spent the rest of the day hopping between movies as he pleased, dodging the prying eyes of concerned parents and unoccupied employees, on the lookout for anything interesting. He watched a bit of  _ Next Stop, Greenwich Village _ before something made him want to leave; he can't remember if he was sad or upset or uncomfortable, but it had made him feel kind of empty, so he left. The emptiness followed.  _ Taxi Driver _ held his interest by virtue of being a film he definitely wouldn't have been allowed to see if Mom was with him, but at the time he didn't really understand much of the plot, and eventually he ducked out of that one, too. He went on like that, sneaking in midway and sneaking back out before the credits, until the sun went down and he finally watched the  _ Freaky Friday _ credits out of pure boredom and he realized that all of the patrons were gone. He hid in the back of the room. The projector turned off. Eventually a teenager came in and lazily swept the first few rows of the theater, missing Jonathan entirely, and then the teenager left and he spent a little while huddled on the floor in the very back corner crying. Jonathan had cried a lot when he was little, before Will was old enough to realize that he was lying about having soap in his eye or suffering from allergies or reading a really sad book.

Then something happened. Adults trickled into the theater, some dressed like crazy people in high heels and feather boas, others wearing dark hoodies and baseball caps, hands thrust deep in their pockets. When the movie started, they all cheered. Nobody noticed Jonathan unfolding his limbs, standing up, wiping his nose with his sleeve, and sitting hesitantly in the nearest chair. Everyone was focused on the screen. 

Jonathan never got bored. He isn't sure that he ever even blinked. It took Lonnie hauling him out with a punishing grip on his arm for the stars to shake themselves loose from his eyes, and even as he stared at his shoes and dug his fingers into his palms while his father raged at him on the long drive home, the images danced in his mind. He hadn't known that people could look like that. Be like that. Love like that. 

It was wrong, but Jonathan thought about Rocky and Frank-N-Furter and Brad for months and then years. They occupied the same space as Greenwich Village and NYU and happily ever afters in his mind, tucked away with all the other impossible things. Things he was afraid to want. Things he was terrified to hope for.

"You can keep talking, if you want," Steve mumbles. "Like last night." 

"Does it help?" 

"...Yeah." 

"Alright," Jonathan says.

_ I want you _ , he thinks.

"Sometimes I'll just drive around town looking for places to stop and take pictures. I like the old sheds and barns in the middle of nowhere. It's nice to think that even when we're gone, there's something beautiful in the things we leave behind, you know? One time I found a brick fireplace with a chimney sitting in the middle of a field, all overgrown and stuff, and when I looked inside there was a bird's nest. I used up a whole roll of film in, like, less than a minute, and then I just sat there for an hour because I didn't have anything else to do that day and I didn't feel like coming home. The pictures were all awful, I threw them in the trash as soon as I developed them, but I kept one of just the outside of the chimney, where you couldn't see the nest at all. Those ones are usually the best, the ones further away. I tend to make a mess of things when I get too close. Like I can't figure out what to focus on, so the frame is cluttered and confused and you can't really tell where you're supposed to be looking, and I get too close so you can't even tell what you're supposed to be looking at." 

The corners of Steve's lips are upturned. They look soft.

"Honestly, I'm terrible when I try to be artistic. The pictures never come out looking like they did in my head. It's better when I do portraits and stuff." 

Something about an impossible desire reminds him of childhood. What's that Alice in Wonderland quote, again? Six impossible things before breakfast. Jonathan's already running pretty late, but there shouldn't be any harm in believing in impossible things after breakfast, right? If he can't let himself believe yet, he can at the very least dream some impossible things. 

One. Steve is smiling just a little bit, unable to contain himself even as he tries to sleep. 

"Like, I think all the pictures from the Snow Ball turned out really nice."

Two. He's thinking about Jonathan. Relishing the sound of his voice.

"I was proud of a lot of the stuff I did for the newspaper."

Three. Steve's hand is itching to take hold of Jonathan's.

"And I know that if I got to take some pictures of you, they would turn out amazing."

Four. Steve sleepily turns his face toward the mattress again. He's hiding a blush, flustered by the thought of the two of them alone, Jonathan wholly focused on admiring his form.

"I'm kind of running out of things to talk about. I could get into lenses or- oh! Dude, Nancy always kept barging into the darkroom at work when she wanted help investigating. But, you know, the dark room has to be dark for a reason, obviously. People don't think about the chemical processes that you need for a photo to develop. I'm not, like, a chemist, but I understand the basics and the light is kind of a big deal. I ruined enough of my own pictures when I started out to learn that lesson. God, that drove me crazy. She's good, though. A good person." 

Five. Steve's body is going lax because he feels safe with Jonathan lying next to him. 

"I love her, but not… I think we're breaking up tomorrow. I'm sorta happy about it. We make better friends, I think. Life is short. There's no reason… well, there's a lot of reasons, but I don't… I don't want to stay in a relationship that isn't good. Even if it makes sense on paper. When you're a kid, you don't grow up dreaming about dating whoever makes the most sense. And I guess I just figure that growing up doesn't mean giving up on the real thing."

Something nudges Jonathan's hand, shifting cautiously under the sheets. Steve hums softly. Their hands curl together, fingers resting atop one another. Pinkies link. 

Six. 

-

Jonathan wakes up alone. The sun seems to be fairly high in the sky outside. Sitting up, he sees his t-shirt and sweatpants folded neatly on Steve's side at the foot of the bed. The bright blue Scoops uniform is nowhere in sight.

It was a nice gesture, but they definitely need to go in the laundry. Wincing in pain and suppressing a groan, Jonathan gets out of bed and takes the clothes with him. He resists the urge to hold them wistfully to his chest. The shirt drops into his dirty clothes pile unceremoniously, wrinkled at the bottom from the way Steve tied it up. Jonathan wishes that Steve hadn't felt the need to wear his smelly, bloody uniform home. He wouldn't have minded missing some loungewear for a while. The pants looked funny on him, too, and- there's something in the pocket. Discarding the pants on top of the pile, Jonathan realizes that he's holding the same thing that Steve was fiddling with when he found him scanning the drawers for a shirt this morning. 

He sets the bright red nametag down on his nightstand, grinning. Maybe someday soon he'll call and Steve will have to pop by and pick it up. Maybe he'll wait a week or four to think it all through.

They've got time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all for now, folks!!! thank you so much for sticking with me through the month-long gap between chapters (thanks, college!). i would like to thank SO many of you who come back to my fics again and again, reviewing every one of them and providing crazy amounts of love and support.
> 
> 10k isn't a huge milestone for some authors, but this is the longest complete work i've ever written, and i wouldn't have done it without the love and light of my life, sarah!! thank you for helping me figure out where i wanted to go and telling me it was okay to go at my own pace and say the things i wanted to say, even if they sound weird. 
> 
> i've got at least one other fic in the works (a oneshot again) that i hope to upload before this month is through, so stay tuned!!! in the meantime, come chat with me @lesbianrobin on tumblr, and i hope you're having a great day <3


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